Wrath of a Mad God

by Raymond E. Feist

  “You read me well,” said Kaspar.

  “You have never lied to me, though you probably never had cause: if you had, you’d no doubt lie as convincingly as a young whore seeking to persuade a rich old man she’s in love with him.”

  Kaspar laughed. “I have been known to avoid the truth when it served me to do so.”

  “So, what do you propose?”

  “Come with me. There are some things I cannot tell you yet, but there are things you should know. If I judge you accurately, you are a man loyal not only to his ruler but also to his nation and people. I think you realize that your young Maharajah is looking for an excuse to finish what he started, his conquest of everything down to and including the City of the Serpent River.

  He wants to finish building his empire. You know the risks.

  While you’re resting and rebuilding, so are your enemies, including Okanala.”

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  Alenburga ran his hand back through his grey hair. “Ah, Kaspar. Why can’t you take service with me? I’d make you my adjutant, second-in-command of all the armies of Muboya.”

  “I lost interest in conquest some time back,” said Kaspar. “I know what it’s like, and I also know what it feels like to be on the other side.”

  “Well, go take service with Okanala, then,” said Alenburga with a laugh. “Facing you in the field would be more fun than those jesters the King employs. The only reason we didn’t win was we ran out of time and gold.”

  “And men,” said Kaspar, remembering the dead bodies of Bandamin, his wife Jojanna, and the boy Jorgan lying by the roadside, while the Master of the Luggage wept over them. “You ran out of men.”

  “Which is why you thought we’d welcome a few thousand seasoned warriors?”

  “Something like that. Though it’s more than a few thousand.”

  “How many more?”

  “How many would you like?”

  Alenburga sat back, regarding Kaspar with a focused attention. Then he said, “I suspect you have more than I want.”

  “More, I think, than any reasonable man would want.”

  “How many?”

  Kaspar could feel all hope draining away. “General, with all candor, from what I know of the situation facing the Tsurani, they may not have much of an army left by the time they deal with the threat to their world. But if they’re smart, they’ll pull up stakes and run. That would mean a million warriors, and three times that in women, children, and other noncombatants.”

  “Four million?” said the General, a look of genuine astonishment on his face. “Our entire population is less than a million, Kaspar.”

  “I know. I doubt there are four million souls living in the Eastlands in all the kingdoms and city states.”

  “Just how many Tsurani are there?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but they have an imperial census 2 8 3

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  they use for taxes, and I have been told that the last one—seven years ago—accounted for twenty million citizens and slaves in their empire.”

  “You hear things, Kaspar, and sometimes you judge them to be rumors and stories, tales told by those given to exaggeration. When I was a boy and heard stories of the Riftwar, it was something of legend. Here in the Eastlands we’d see the occasional trader from your continent up north. We knew you were up there, but we never had much contact. The Riftwar was this amazing tale of aliens from another world who used magic to invade the Kingdom of the Isles. A ten-year struggle and a cli-mactic battle. Very much the stuff of sagas, but in all of that, we never heard a jot of information about the order of battle, the disposition of resources, or provisioning the troops—the stock and trade of the working soldier, Kaspar. To us, it was all a fantasy.”

  “Not for those dying up there, General. As difficult as it may be to believe, I have met some people who lived through that war, and the one that devastated this continent afterward, and I can tell you it was no fantasy to them.”

  “But millions of Tsurani . . .”

  “I will tell you everything you need to know, but time is short.”

  “Kaspar, you know I would probably recommend to His Majesty that we accept your Tsurani refugees, or at least some of them, if I could guarantee their good behavior.”

  “Then you should meet them,” said Kaspar with a dark grin.

  “Really?” Alenburga sat back in his chair and looked at Kaspar across the chessboard. “How do you suppose I can do that?”

  “Well, I have arranged for you and your general staff to take part in a firsthand demonstration of the Tsuranis’ ability to fight.”

  “Kaspar, now you’re being glib.”

  Kaspar smiled. “Yes, I am. Let me tell you of the Dasati.”

  Speaking quietly and calmly he told the General everything he knew of the situation on Kelewan and the minutes soon turned 2 84

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  into hours. When the General’s batsman came to see if Alenburga needed anything, he was waved away. By the time Kaspar had finished the story, evening had become night and the palace in Muboya was silent.

  The General let out a long, slow breath. “Kaspar, that is a remarkable story.”

  “It is true, every word, I swear.”

  “An army of millions with no effective leadership?”

  “I need you, General,” said Kaspar. “The Tsurani need you.

  I have officers waiting, but not enough of them. I have one experienced commander who has led men in the field and can conduct brilliant tactics and who has a brilliant grasp of logistics: Erik von Darkmoor. I am not being vain when I tell you I am his equal. But I need a strategist. If you can come to Kelewan and help them mount a defense, you’ll understand what type of soldier you’ll find ready to do your bidding. They are tough, loyal, and fearless. But I need a high command and I need a full staff in place. And I need it soon.”

  “How soon?”

  Something in Kaspar’s belt pouch buzzed, and Kaspar pulled it out rapidly. It was a signaling device given to him by an artificer on Sorcerer’s Island, at Miranda’s instruction. Every member with military training had one, from Kaspar down to the boys serving with him, Servan, Jommy, and the others. Key officers in Roldem, Rillanon, Krondor, and other cities would have their devices buzzing. It meant that word had reached Miranda that the Dasati had begun their invasion of Kelewan.

  Kaspar looked steadily at the General. “I need you now.”

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  Chapter 18

  invasion

  The woman screamed.

  “Help me!” she cried as she clutched her baby to her chest. She was covered in blood and spattered with an orange fluid unrecognizable to the scouts. Their horses pawed the ground nervously, as the woman neared. One scout dismounted and halted the wide-eyed woman and looked at her baby. With a single shake of his head he indicated to his companion the child was not sleeping, but dead.

  With an equally curt gesture the still mounted rider indicated he would move away and leave his companion to direct the woman to the south, where the army was mustering. There were healing priests there who would do what they could for the woman. Others would say a prayer for the baby.

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  The dismounted rider tried to calm the still crying woman and the other moved his steed up the northern road. The report that a small village in the foothills of the mountains had been razed had reached them two days ago. Word had been sent south by fast rider and then by magical means to the Holy City. In a few hours, the order to muster had been given, and warriors from every house and clan in the north answered the call. The gathering point was a small outpost closest to the reported incursion, a small fort housing cavalry from House Ambucar. The small cavalry detachment, some of the finest horsemen in the Empire, had the duty to patrol the foothills to the north.

  The outpost’s primary duty over the centuries had been to prevent raids by the migratory Th¯un to the north, so
they were in good position to respond to the Dasati incursion. The rider pushed his horse up a steep rise to a crest and looked to the north. Part of his normal patrol area, this road and the village that had nestled in a vale below were as familiar to him as his own son’s face. Most buildings were intact, though two were burning at the far side of the village square, erected around the common well. The scout surmised the fires had been the result of overturned cook fires, perhaps, else the other buildings in the village would also be ablaze.

  The woman he had met on the road was the only proof this village had been occupied. One hundred twenty or more men, women, and children, all serving House Ambucar, were gone. An experienced tracker, the scout quickly ascertained what had just happened.

  The village had been struck by a raiding party of mounted men . . . if that’s what they were, he considered, for the tracks in the dust were made by no animal he had seen before; neither horse nor needra nor Th ¯un warrior made those marks in the dirt.

  He ranged around the village a few more minutes, then saw drag marks. For a moment he was confused, then he realized the villagers had been trussed up in large nets and dragged away.

  He was too old and experienced a scout to doubt his own eyes, but nothing of this made sense. As a young soldier he had served a tour in a garrison across the Sea of Blood and had fought against slavers from the lost tribes of Tsubar, those malignant 2 8 7

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  dwarves who used humans as slave labor. You wouldn’t drag valuable slaves, risking injury and death; you’d truss them up in a coffle or herd them aboard waiting wagons.

  The village that had been the site of the first alarm was but a half hour’s fast ride up the road. If he hurried, he might overtake the raiders, burdened as they were by their captives. There was only one way for them to travel, for on the right the river Gagajin flowed down a series of rapids and cut gaps, at times falling a hundred feet below the roadway, and on the right a series of steep hillsides vaulted upward, giving little room for more than a trio of riders or a heavy wagon to pass.

  A short time later he saw by dust on the road ahead he was catching up with the raiders, and none too soon, if he could tell from the splatters of blood along the trail. If the villagers were netted as he suspected, many would be dead, crushed under the weight of their companions or from the repeated pounding as they bounced along the ground.

  There was dust over a rise, a position from which he should be able to see the next village. He hurried his now tiring horse up the steep road, and when he came to the crest, he reined in.

  Galloping down the road were men—if that’s what they were—mounted on creatures unlike anything he had ever seen, from this world or the world of Midkemia. They dragged large nets behind them, in which a dozen or more bodies were confined. Weak cries told the scout a few wretches endured within the masses of the dead. But what commanded his attention was what he saw as their destination.

  A sphere without feature rose up above what should have been the village of Tastiano. It rose easily three hundred feet, and from the rider’s vantage, appeared to be half a ball buried in the soil. Which would mean a six-hundred-foot diameter. More than a quarter mile across! He realized it must be some Dasati magic as he saw the first rider vanish through the wall as if passing through a sheet of smoke.

  Two Dasati riders were turning and the scout realized he had been observed. Their alien-looking mounts were quickly at a gallop and the scout turned his horse about. He put heels to the 2 8 8

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  mount’s barrel and urged him to a gallop. His horse was tired, but bred for endurance as well as speed, and he just hoped it was faster than those monsters coming after him. He had to carry a warning, for at the last instant, just before he lost sight of the murky sphere, he had seen it expand. It was now bigger than it had been moments before.

  The magician cast a spell. A pair of Dasati Deathpriests erected a protective barrier but not before one of them was struck by a flaming globe of fire. Tomataka, the Tsurani Great One who had cast the fireball, was knocked backward by the concussion of the following explosion. The Deathpriest standing next to the one who had been struck was thrown sideways almost thirty yards and slammed against a rock face hard enough to break his bones.

  The battle had raged all morning, with thousands of Tsurani warriors streaming into a pass that led into the small valley. They were south of the village Tastiano in the northern mountain range that bordered the Empire, the High Wall, or where that village had rested before being devoured by the black sphere.

  The river Gagajin had one of its two sources in the mountains high above this valley and what was called the Greater Gagajin flowed through the heart of the valley.

  The Dasati had chosen well in establishing this beachhead, for there was only one access point—a narrow pass a few hundred feet above the river. The Gagajin flowed too quickly and the pass was too constricted for boats to be used to ferry soldiers upstream. To the south of the valley the invaders could move directly into Hokani province, threatening old Minwanabi estates now belonging to the Emperor’s family. From there it would be down to the city of Jamar, then on to the City of the Plains, off Battle Bay, where the great rift which had enabled the original invasion site of Midkemia still existed. Or they could swing southwest, and attack the city of Silmani, the northernmost population center on the river Gagajin, then cut down through what was left of the Holy City of Kentosani, on to Sulan-Qu and down to the ancient Acoma estates, where the Emperor was hidden away.

  Tomataka was one of a dozen magicians who had volun-2 8 9

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  teered to accompany the massive response to the reports of invasion that had been communicated to the Assembly the day before. The Empire was in turmoil, although some order had been restored by the simple means of the Emperor issuing edicts and every house in the north of Hokani obeying. Tens of thousands of warriors were on the march, although many were still days away, but the first few hundred accompanied by the Great Ones had entered the valley pass this morning at dawn.

  The Great One picked himself up off the ground, his ears still ringing from the impact. He could see dozens of Dasati warriors pouring out of the Black Mount. It was the size of a small mountain and as black as soot at midnight, hence the name. No light came from within and there were no apparent doors or windows, yet the Dasati warriors and priests seemed to pass through with ease.

  Hundreds of Tsurani warriors were hurrying up the trail above the river and were essentially throwing their lives away to halt the Dasati advance. The Great One’s head was pounding and he was unable to focus enough to conjure any spell that would help, so he retreated slowly from the advancing front to gather himself. But when he looked toward the Black Mount he noticed with alarm that it was larger than when he had first arrived: there had been a lightning-struck tree and an odd rock formation at the far edge of the growing black sphere; now they were gone from sight. He calculated and judged that the sphere must have grown a dozen or more yards on that side in less than an hour.

  Still feeling wobbly, he turned and staggered down the trail from the line of advancing Tsurani footmen. He knew that somewhere down the trail Tsurani cavalry would be waiting. Horses were still a rarity on Kelewan, but every major house now had a number, and they would not waste them trying to force them through on a narrow footpath, but would keep them in reserve for a counteroffensive should the Dasati reach the bottom of the trail and the great plains below.

  The magician knew that the Dasati would succeed in doing this. He had seen their Deathknights fight and he had seen his countrymen die, and he had no doubt. The Tsurani Empire, 2 9 0

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  and this entire world, could not stand on the strength of Tsurani bravery and dedication alone.

  Newly appointed Supreme Commander Prakesh Alenburga looked around the room. In ancient days this had been the court of Lord Sezu of the Acoma and his daughter, the legendary
Lady Mara, later known as the Mistress of the Empire. Alenburga did not understand the gravity of history those names represented, but he had quickly come to appreciate the weight of Tsurani history. Everything he had seen since coming to this world spoke of ancient times, and a tradition that was deep and rich. These were a great people and he felt a strong attraction to them, perhaps because his own nation was young and had none of the trappings of history these people exhibited at every hand.

  Alenburga bowed before the Emperor, his head still aching from the spell used by the priest whom Miranda had summoned to teach them all the Tsurani language, in an hour. That had been yesterday evening, but by the end of that hour he could understand and be understood, and that had been worth the pain. “I pledge my life to discharge the great responsibility you have placed in my hands, Your Majesty,” he said solemnly.

  Emperor Sezu, named for the last man to rule this very house, inclined his head, “It is we who thank you, Commander.”

  He looked around the room. Beside Alenburga stood Kaspar of Olasko and Erik von Darkmoor, and behind them waited their makeshift staff. Jommy, Servan, Tad, and Zane stood to the right of Alenburga’s headquarters staff, which consisted of a score of officers from Kesh, the Kingdoms of Roldem and the Isles, and the Eastern Kingdoms. Two of the boys would serve with Erik as aides-de-camp, and the others would serve in the same capacity with Kaspar. The Emperor nodded in the direction of this team and added, “As we thank all of you who have come to our world to fight on our behalf.”

  The Emperor now looked toward the assembled Tsurani nobles who clustered on the other side of the audience hall; it had once served well for a ruling lord of a single house, but for those gathered at the Emperor’s command, it was decidedly cramped.